Stuffed
by Teobi
Summary: 'What made you take up taxidermy' Mary asks Norman as he takes a break from painting the motel. Peaceful convo between my two favorite friends. Based on Psycho II.
Yup, it's another AU Norman/Mary ficlet. Color me obsessed. I say AU because this is my world where nothing bad ever happens. (Or is only alluded to). I will never stop wishing that Psycho II had ended well for both of them.

 **Stuffed**

Norman had taken a break from painting the motel. Mary had joined him and the two of them were sitting on chairs outside the office, drinking home made lemonade. Norman had complimented her, saying it was the best lemonade he had ever tasted, and they clinked their glasses together as though it were champagne.

A sparrow landed on the deck near their feet. Norman watched it carefully as it hopped towards his shoe.

Mary watched Norman watching the sparrow, and noticed he was as still as a cat.

The sparrow got close enough to touch Norman's shoe. It pecked at the wooden floorboards and found an ant, which it ate. Then it flew away, out into the sunshine and over the top of cabin twelve.

"That was one brave little bird," Mary said jokingly.

Norman's head swiveled slowly. He looked at her with one eyebrow raised. "Oh, why?"

Mary, her glass lifted to her lips in preparation for another sip, realized that Norman was expecting an answer. With the rim an inch from her lips, she said, "because of your hobby. You know, stuffing birds."

The corner of Norman's mouth quirked in that strange half smirk that always reminded Mary that she didn't know him as well as she thought she did. "Mary, I don't stuff every single bird I see," he said, his voice laced with quiet amusement.

"Lucky for them," Mary went on, wondering if she was pushing it.

Norman laughed, and then he kept laughing until his shoulders shook and lemonade spilled out of his glass. At the end of the laughter he snorted, which made Mary laugh too. Soon they were both laughing, but Mary didn't know why.

"You thought I was going to stamp that poor bird to death," Norman said with pretend outrage.

"I did not!"

"You did. Admit it. I knew you were watching me. You thought I was after that bird for my collection. Well, I wasn't. Besides, I already have enough sparrows." He lifted his glass in a toast, and then took a long, satisfied swallow.

Mary glared at him. "Tell me you're kidding."

"I'm kidding."

But Mary didn't think he was.

She put her glass down, leaned back in her chair and put one foot on the post in front of her.

"Norman, what made you take up stuffing things?" She hoped she sounded mildly curious, as though discussing morbid hobbies with convicted murderers was something she did every day.

"Well, for one thing, I'm good with my hands."

She glanced at him. His face was completely straight.

"But really," he went on, "it's a way of keeping things permanent."

"Permanent but dead," said Mary.

"Yes, obviously," he replied.

Mary went quiet. She rocked her chair gently, listening to it creak like dry old bones.

"People have their pets stuffed, did you know that?" Norman said. "They want to keep them around because they can't bear to say goodbye."

"Still, it's pretty... I don't know, gruesome," said Mary. "You have to cut them open and everything. It sounds messy. I think a decent burial is more dignified."

"You may think that, and it's your right. But plenty of people would disagree. They want Fluffy sitting on her favorite chair so they can talk to her and pet her as if she never went away. You'll find that most of the people who do this are lonely, single people for whom their pet is their only company. It's sad how many folk like that there are." Norman looked at Mary so intensely that her neck went hot. "Pray that it never happens to you, Mary. You may be young and beautiful now, but that won't last forever. Pray you don't end up alone with only your stuffed... cat for company."

His telling pause did not go unnoticed by Mary. But still she wanted to know more.

"How did you learn?" she asked. "Did you take stuffing classes?"

"It's called taxidermy, Mary. And no, I didn't take classes. I'm self taught. From books. I was an introverted child and an avid reader. I spent hours in my room poring over books on every subject imaginable. My first efforts were messy. There were a lot of failures. Mother didn't like the mess or the smell, so I had to do it in secret, like a lot of things. I would work throughout the night, in my room. Eventually I got the hang of it. In fact, I think a sparrow was one of my early successes. It may still be in the attic, if I look."

"Didn't you ever think there was something creepy about it?"

"No. Why would I?"

"Because you're taking dead things and making them look as if they're still alive."

"But Mary- that is the whole point."

"I know, but- it's weird. Dead things should be left dead."

"In your opinion."

"Not just my opinion, lots of peoples' opinions."

"Haven't you ever visited a museum? All those 'stuffed animals'? How would we learn about their anatomy without some point of reference? Mary, is it any different to a human autopsy where they remove the internal organs and put them on a weighing machine? Or saw off the top of your skull and take out your brain, the thing that contained all your thoughts, hopes and dreams? You don't think that's more creepy than preserving a beloved pet for a lonely old woman?"

"It's not the same. Autopsies are for finding out how someone died. Besides, they put everything back. Don't they?"

Norman gave her another quirky grin. "Not always. Sometimes they just put your organs in a bag, not in the place where they originally came from. It's not like they make you whole again. They just make you presentable so your family can come and look at you."

Mary shuddered. "Okay. But whatever happens, we don't _stuff_ people."

Norman mumbled something behind the rim of his glass.

"I didn't hear you," said Mary.

"It was nothing important," replied Norman. "To continue on the subject of taxidermy. It's a skill, just like painting or sculpting. There's still a market for it and techniques are improving all the time. You could call it a cross between art and medical science. It's useful and it's informative. You just have to stop using words like 'gruesome' and 'creepy'. That just gives it a stigma that it doesn't deserve."

Norman was beginning to sound defensive. He hadn't quite begun stammering, but there was a slight tremor in his voice as though his throat had constricted. Once again Mary knew that she'd started a conversation over which she had no control, and that Norman was becoming unpredictable. It seemed to be a recurring pattern in their friendship, no matter how hard she tried not to delve into his past.

"I didn't mean to criticize you," Mary said, forlornly. "I was just trying to make a joke about the way that bird trusted you. I wish I hadn't said anything."

Norman put his glass down next to hers. "It's all right, Mary. It's half my fault for being so sensitive. I seem to take everything as a criticism. I wish I didn't, but it's hard to change now. It's just part of who I am. Like everything else, unfortunately."

His expression grew so touching that Mary felt a sudden urge to reassure him. She reached out and placed her hand on his forearm. "You're a good guy, Norman. And I understand about wanting things to stay permanent. That owl of yours with the open wings looks almost alive, the way its big eyes look at you. I guess it's just that something has to be dead before you can stuff it. That's the bit that I find cr- " she was about to say 'creepy', but thought better of it, "it's uncomfortable to think about."

Norman looked down at her hand. "Well, don't worry, I haven't done any stuffing for a good long while. I'm not about to start killing every bird I see and filling the house with dead bodies."

Mary laughed nervously. "I hope not."

"Trust me," he said with a renewed twinkle in his eye, as though her hand on his arm was all he needed. He reached down to retrieve his drink. "If I stuff anything, you'll be the first to know."

Mary watched him swallow the last of his lemonade with a definite smile on his face. After he'd drained his glass he thunked it down on the deck and got up from his chair, stretching his gazelle-like limbs, rotating his neck until his cervical vertebrae cracked. Again she shuddered, wondering if this man would ever stop being so enigmatic and strange. But despite it all, she still liked him, and still found him endlessly fascinating.

"Enough chit-chat," he said, knocking her foot off the post. "Time to get back to work. The motel won't paint itself!"

Knocking her foot from the post almost made Mary tip her chair over backwards. After reorienting herself with a gasp, she leaped up and chased him along the deck, past all of the cabins. He laughed even harder, using his hand to swing himself round the post at the end of the deck where the cabins changed direction. He ran like the wind, and Mary felt as light as the sparrow that trusted him.

"Norman Bates, I'll stuff you!" she yelled.

"Gotta catch me first," he shouted back, but she knew she never would. He would always be a wingbeat ahead, Norman Bates and all his quirky ways.


End file.
